Regret soon gave place to awe. To the imagination of the Indian, it seemed
as if a still voice, like that which is believed to issue from the grave,
was heard in the place. Bending his body forward, he listened with the
intensity and acuteness of a savage. He thought the smothered tones of
Mark Heathcote were again audible, holding communion with his God. The
chisel of the Grecian would have loved to delineate the attitudes and
movements of the wondering boy, as he slowly and reverently withdrew from
the spot. His look was riveted on the vacancy where the upper apartments
of the block had stood, and where he had last seen the family, calling, in
their extremity, on their Deity for aid. Imagination still painted the
victims, in their burning pile. For a minute longer, during which brief
space the young Indian probably expected to see some vision of the
Pale-faces, did he linger near; and then, with a musing air and softened
mind, he trod lightly along the path which led on the trail of his people.
When his active form reached the boundary of the forest, he again paused,
and taking a final gaze at the place where fortune had made him a witness
to so much domestic peace and of so much sudden misery, his form was
quickly swallowed in the gloom of his native woods.
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